


Brew

by evil_bunny_king



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, It's the Oxford AU again, Slow Burn, concept art Solas version: man bun, pure fluff, teehee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3916153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/pseuds/evil_bunny_king
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the following prompt from the wonderful mastcells, with a few deviations:</p><p>"Lavellan is a barista at the Starbucks beneath Solas’ office, and he’s on his phone the whole time while ordering, (probably some decaf soy milk super hipster thing). So she decides to misspell his name in increasingly curious ways until he says something about it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brew

It was 8:05 am.

Abora retreated back to the cubby hole that constituted the café’s ‘kitchen’ and counter, scouring the room as she passed, leaving the ‘open’ placard swinging on the front door behind her. The morning’s croissants – yep, artfully displayed underneath their glass dome (check); the stools- clustered around the tables in an inviting, yet space-conscious manner (new arrangement attempted; she prayed to the gods it would help when the mid-morning rush arrived). Satisfactory. She settled against a cupboard with a sigh, turning her gaze to the two-foot, copper coffee maker that squatted beside her. Ah yes. Another morning. Another potential scalding.

Abora couldn’t say that mornings were her best time.

There were just so many other, more wonderful o’clocks that she could be encountered in. Times when she’d almost twirl around _Haven’s_ small floor space, dolling out lattes and cappuccinos to the rhythms trilling from the corner record player (so _painfully_ indie). Sometimes she’d even attempt to craft shapes into the foam, although most of her experiments remained hidden under the bar, the deformations dispersed hastily with a spoon.

Monday mornings would never be one of those. But Abora Lavellan, eldest daughter of the veritable Lavellan _clan_ , was a dutiful employee and a loyal friend. If mornings were what her dear friend and long-time boss Cassandra needed from her, then mornings with the crotchety-old coffee machine she would, at length, conquer.

Slipping a mug from a drawer, she squared her shoulders and began the process of prepping an expresso. As long as she kept an eye on the faint swirl of steam that heralded which parts of the contraption were flaming hot, she might be able to avoid damaging herself before her morning dose of caffeine stirred her into full wakefulness.

‘Haven’. It liked to present itself as a small, independent coffee shop - set adrift from the main high streets of Oxford it was one of a collection of artisanal stores, actually, that lined an out of the way passage to the north of the centre, thriving on the business of the clutch of colleges and departments that surrounded it.

Less advertised was the fact that it was, nevertheless, part of a franchise, although this branch retained more autonomy than most. The _Chantry_ conglomerate, established decades ago on the back of its weapons manufacturing but now present across the market, had long since sank its claws into the coffee shop through its subsidiary company, ‘Right and Left’ (itself a grocery store chain, beloved brain child of a Cassandra Pentaghast and her business partner Leliana, that had been equally enveloped).

It was the parent company that had suggested the décor, successfully managing to fulfil every cliché associated with the Hipster way of life. Yet it was the customers who managed to substantiate them. They flooded into the café in droves, the turn of the hour spilling professors and students alike from the confines of their lecture rooms and into the cramped space of the tiny store.

The front door chose this moment to rattle and she started in her sleepiness, narrowly missing knocking her elbow into the counter.

Speak of the devil.

Composing herself and her features as much as possible (although she was sure the edges of her mouth still bore witness to the patented ‘Abora the ogre’ grimace), she turned to the opening door and gave her best smile.

It was the sound of a deep, cultured voice that reached her first, its owner pausing at the entrance as they continued their conversation.

“-will have to be tomorrow, then. Unfortunate. I suspect that asking for the department to demonstrate a modicum of professionalism would be naïve, however.”

A professor, she guessed. Abora raised an eyebrow and waited as the door at length pushed open, revealing the speaker in increments. A grey fleece, fluffy and delectably warm-looking. Broad shoulders. Sharp features, accentuated by the strands of mahogany-brown hair that slipped from its neat bun to graze his left jawline. Her traitorous heart fluttered in her chest at the sight, threatening to set butterflies on her ribcage. _Damn_. Not that she’d attempt to pick up one of her customers, particularly an apparent lecturer (the well-loved briefcase synched it), but still.

She watched as he gently shouldered his way into the room, amused to note the brick of a phone that was pressed firmly against his ear (yes, could only be an academic). His pale eyes made contact with hers before he was half-way across the floor, but before she could open her mouth to greet him he waved a five pound note at her, ignoring the tinny voice continued to squeak against his ear, audible from the counter.

“De-caf cappuccino, no sugar, to go, please,” he instructed, briskly and efficiently. He strode the final feet to place the money on the counter before turning smartly to the wall to resume his conversation, dismissing her without another thought.

Abora levelled him with an incredulous stare, irritation a much less pleasant sensation tickling in her chest.

Well. Alright then.

(Rude)

She prepared his drink in an awkward silence broken only by his increasingly snippy responses, her irritation only growing as he swiped up his change and drink and stalked out with barely a nod, the door rattling once more as it swung shut behind him.

She scowled after him before reaching for her expresso, narrowly avoiding scalding her forearm on the milk steamer.

Nice serving you as well, asshole.

 

\----

 

As her luck would have it, despite his apparent disregard for the atmosphere and absolutely superb service the coffee shop offered, he returned the next morning.

She hardly recognised him at first, swept up as she was in the mid-morning rush: the swarm of half-asleep students reached its crescendo shortly after ten, when the first cohort sprinted late to their classes and the next took refuge in the café, recovering from their 9-AM starts. She’d been darting around the room during a brief lull in the storm, scooping up saucers and cups with practised ease, when she caught sight of him through the shop’s glass front. Grey fleece snuggly fitting a slender frame, hair tied back in that same, subtly elaborate bun – but it was the brick of the Samsung that he once again had pressed to his ear that really sparked her memory, causing her to pause mid-extraction of an expresso glass from between two patrons.

He looked tired, more so than he had the day before, as he trudged up the street, sticking to the side as students streamed around him. She even felt a pang of pity for him at the weight that seemed to be slumping his shoulders. She rescued the glass and stood with her hip cocked, examining him momentarily from the safety of distance as he approached. Her resurrected irritation was easing, a faint sense of chagrin replacing it. A professor would be overwhelmed this time of year, after all – and impoliteness wasn’t the worst of crimes. Perhaps she’d judged him too soon.

She smothered her thoughtful frown with difficulty, back-tracking to deposit her dishes into the waiting washing machine.

A few other customers slipped through the door before the professor could do so, and soon she was caught up once more in the whirl of drinks and cake (baked freshly by Cullen this very morning), scrawling their names across the take-away cups as she waited for the machine to brew the first of the coffee shots. Quickly steaming the milk of a latte, she turned to the next in line, automatic smile slotting into place.

It was him. And surprise, surprise - he was on the phone. Again.

“De-caf cappuccino, no sugar, to go, please,” he smoothly listed, money on the counter. His pale gaze caught hers for only a moment before they slid towards the window, absorbed in his conversation once more. “No, Jonathan – if you’d listened to what I said earlier, you’d – yes. That’s what I meant. Well done.”

The choked gurgle of the finished expressos called to her before her features could give away her expression (annoyance, tempered with amusement despite herself at the disparaging sarcasm that soaked the professor’s final words) and she turned to seal them, slotting the next cups in line under the machine’s nozzles.

“Name?” she requested of her absent-minded professor, sliding the completed drinks to the waiting customers with a smile at their thanks. He didn’t hear her, a frown creasing his brow as he stared out the window. She schooled her expression and faced him fully, clutching at the inner sense of calm she knew she had somewhere. “Excuse me, but could I have your name?”

She shook his coffee cup gently at him, and the professor blinked, surprise widening his eyes before understanding cleared them. “Ah, yes. My apologies." He almost - almost! - lowered his brick. “Solas. S-O-L-A-S.”

He immediately returned to his distracted people watching and she was left considered the cup in her hand, tugging the lid from her sharpie. Mess with me once, she thought with a touch of irritation- and bit her lip to hide a burgeoning grin as an idea struck her.

Turning back to the coffee maker (it had almost completed the latest shots of coffee, and she needed to bag a slice of lemon cake), she quickly scrawled his name and his order on the side and placed the cup in the queue.

Or rather, she wrote ‘Sorrel’, accompanied with a smiley face and a crude sketch of a dropped pompom of a plant.

It wasn’t as if he was likely to check it anyway – if he was too busy to even pause a phone call while ordering drinks, lingering over a disposable coffee cup seemed unlikely. Besides. It was all a bit of fun. She ignored the spectre of Cassandra’s disapproval that seemed to hover over her as she returned to frothing the milk with a flourish for her spectators (her wonderful regulars, the ones that did give her the time of day). He’d never notice.

The remaining orders passed in a blur of steam and chocolate powder (they were running low on vanilla rooibos, she’d have to remember to order more in) and before long she’d placed his sealed cup and change before him, automatically giving him her usual parting grin. It somewhat froze in surprise when, wonder of all wonders, he actually dropped his phone to his shoulder and made eye contact as he put the money away, giving her a genuine quirk of a smile.

“Thank you.” _Don’t stare don’t stare don’t stare_ but he was thanking her, and his voice was smooth, clearly audible despite the hum of voices around them. He had freckles dotting his nose, she chose this moment to notice. “I must admit, this is the best coffee house I’ve yet encountered in the city. I look forward to spending more time here.”

“Good-” she paused to clear her suddenly rusty throat, before forcing herself straighter and giving him a lopsided smile. Traitorous body. “That’s always good to hear. You know where to find us.”

Another nod, warmth crinkling the corners of his eyes, and then he took his drink and made his way back outside, phone rising to his ear once more.

She was blinking after him, equal parts of bemusement and embarrassment warring within her (awkward, Abora, why do you have to be so awkward?) when she remembered the misspelling - her mischievous, petty moment of professional weakness. Her cheeks flushed, amber skin blushing a warm red, and she quickly turned and busied herself with cleaning the bar, trying to ignore the fact that the flush burned all the way to the tips of her ears.

Gods, spirits, if you do exist. Please restrain me from my impulsive behaviour in future. For the good of us all.

 

\----

 

The memory bugged her the entire cycle to work the next day.

Not being made of money, she flat-shared with Brookes students in Headington – which made the cycle a challenge (particularly in the evenings considering the hill she had to climb), but one she enjoyed, particularly now that spring was properly on its way.

If she was honest with herself, it was odd to be surrounded by talk of exams and coursework and to no longer be part of it. Not that she was complaining. The day of her final exams had not been a victory celebration but rather the embrace of freedom won at last. A mechanical engineer unleashed upon the world – exhausted, wrung out, with a good grade but nary one internship to her name. This was a Very Bad Thing for an engineer. Particularly an unemployed grad student living off of her own buck in one of the most expensive cities in the country. But a break was what she’d needed- she’d danced with a burn out those last pain-staking months, days and nights spent locked in libraries and her moulding room. There’d been no time, in any case, for internship hunting that final year – for her at least.

Not that it had overly mattered, in the end. Weeks of searching after a long summer break had eventually unearthed an opportunity: one that even happened to be near the city, albeit only starting the following year. And so Abora had picked up the coffee shop job amongst others in the meanwhile, scraping basic upkeep as she ‘waited’ the time away.

She giggled breathlessly at her own joke as she pulled up to the store and locked her bike securely outside, before stomping in to begin the morning’s preparations.

As it happened, he showed up, akin to the first time, shortly after the shop had opened.

Abora was installed behind the bar, experimenting with her morning latte’s foam designs, so absorbed in her attempt that the soft thud of the opening door made her start. The ribs of the leaf she was trying to coax out of the milk instantly blurred into a muggy mess, evoking only a disappointing rendition of Casper the friendly ghost.

She swallowed the quiet swear-word that sprung To her tongue and looked up. Paused.

Grey fleece, half-zipped. A glimpse of a neatly pressed dress shirt beneath, top button undone and bent away to reveal the hollow at the base of a pale throat, skin taut beneath the ash-coloured fabric. She fought to bring her gaze to a more respectable level, flicking it up to search his expression for hints of annoyance.

The fact that he’d showed up at all was a good sign – unless he was here to complain, which would be bad. But she could see that his features were calm, collected, full lips comfortably stretched in a smile (stop it, Abora), and he nodded to her as he stepped into the otherwise empty shop, letting the door shut gently behind him.

His phone was nowhere in sight.

Abora carefully set down the frothed milk, returning his smile (with slight trepidation) as he reached the bar.

“Good morning,” she chirped, forcing energy she didn’t yet quite have (still too early) into her voice as he examined the morning croissant selection. Cullen had brought a collection of vanilla crème crowns this time – her absolute favourite, as she...may have told him a hundred times before. The wrappings of the one he’d brought for her especially lay crumpled surreptitiously in the bin. “Another unsweetened, de-caf cappuccino to go?”

“Good morning. That would be lovely, yes.” His voice was stronger today than it had been before, reflecting, she suspected, an easing of his schedule. Had to be if he’d unglued the phone from his hand. “And one of these, if you don’t mind. They look delicious.”

“I can assure you they are,” she responded with a grin, letting herself relax at the lack of recriminations. She shuffled to the coffee machine and began to prepare the coffee shots, checking the amount of milk left in steamer – not enough; she’d have to start a new batch. Wastage. Oops.

She could hear him shuffling behind her as he gave out a small sigh; when she looked around, he was once more looking out into the cobbled street beyond the glass, hand raised to pinch the high bridge of his nose. She felt yesterday’s sympathy stir once more. She knew that look.

Shifting until she could swing the remains of the milk one-handed into the sink, she cast a glance at him over her shoulder. “Long day ahead?”

He glanced at her with the raise of an eyebrow, before settling into a smile, another sigh slipping from his chest. “You could say that, although to limit it to just the day would be unfoundedly optimistic.” She laughed lightly at that and he shifted closer to the bar, watching her as she bustled the milk out of the fridge and tipped a fresh, cappuccino-sized amount into the pitcher. The wrinkle of a tired frown crept between his brows as he spoke. “Admittedly it is exacerbated by the fact that I am moving house at the same time. Such is the way of things.”

“You are new to the area as well as ‘Haven’, then?" She set about frothing the milk. This part, at least, she had to a practised art. “How are you finding it?”

His chuckle was rich, warm, if touched with a subtle irony she couldn’t place. “Quaint, and yet surprisingly exacting. In regards to the city itself… It is magnificent, although it has changed little since I last strayed through it. Except, perhaps, in how saturated its streets have become.”

She echoed his laugh, shaking the pitcher under the steam nozzle in an attempt to discourage the larger air bubbles. “Too true, it can be almost impossible to get anywhere on the weekends. It’s hard to blame the tourists, though. It’s such a beautiful place.”

He hummed an acknowledgement, shifting to lean his hip against the bar. His gaze strayed once again through the front window, his elbow crooking casually on the countertop. The angle gave her a clear view of the smooth slope of his jaw, the broad arc of his cheekbone – there were even thin braids interspersed throughout his fine hair, she noticed now, gathered with the rest of it into the neat bun at the back of his head.

She smothered a flinch as the pitcher’s heat flared against her distracted fingers. Well, the milk was done.

He was looking more alive than he had the day before, she noted nevertheless as she switched off the steam and swung the pitcher away; although the hints of exhaustion were still visible in the shadows smeared under his eyes. The small respite must be welcome – although knowing the town, it would all too likely be short-lived.

She wiped and purged the steam nozzle as she waited for the machine to finish its laborious grinding process, fingers drumming impatiently against the counter top. Her nail caught the sharpie, sending it skittering across the counter – and another bad idea struck her, even as she glanced to see if her customer was still distracted. He was – his attention drawn by the morning daylight playing against the old stone façade of the building opposite, unseeing eyes sketching the haphazard pattern of the bricks, lost in thought.

She succumbed to the impulse and quickly whipped the sharpie closer, scratching a small four leaf clover and another smiley – winking with a little thumbs up - beneath the lip just before the coffee shots began to filter into the cup. Briefly abandoning the machine for now, she bagged a pastry crown and took the note he offered her, at length managing to deposit his completed drink and collected change on the counter together.

“Well,” she began with a smile, folding her hands in front of her. “I hope things ease up for you, Solas.” She didn’t realise she’d said his name until his eyebrows raised in surprise, gaze flicking over her as a pleased smile creased his lips. …Oops. It was odd to have remembered – not so much when the associated desire for revenge was calculated in, but still uncanny, nevertheless. She suppressed a wave of quickly rising horror and embarrassment and maintained her composure, pretending she hadn’t noticed the slip. “Have a nice day.”

Scooping his order from the counter, he gave her a nod, sidestepping with envious grace through the maze of stools and tables. “To you as well. See you tomorrow… Abora.”

He disappeared neatly through the door, thankfully without seeing the gormless way she gaped after him, heartbeat suddenly drumming with a mix of excited energy and bewilderment. She hadn’t given him her name. She hadn’t had the _chance_ to give him her name. How the heck did he…?

It was only twenty minutes and five attempted latte arts later that she remember the quirky name tag she had pinned so brazenly to her woolen jumper, screaming her name in a mixture of green and purple sharpies in its heart-shaped frame.

She hated mornings.

**Author's Note:**

> All hail the one true god, the maker – of coffee. Or capitalism? I don’t know. This is another daft AU even less thought out than the other one. but do I care? Nope. And I’m playing with the concept art again, because I like bald Solas, but I also like non-bald Solas, you get me?
> 
> I have worked a commercial coffee machine. But not an artisanal one, and struggled to get cappuccino foam thick enough, let alone make art in it. Many liberties taken. My apologies.
> 
> Well my writing rustiness is fading, at least... This was a Uni break :]
> 
> Mastcells made this wonderful comic of the second meeting everyone go look at it and [wonder at it with me.](http://evilbunnyking.tumblr.com/post/119797748205/mastcells-accompaniment-comic-to)


End file.
